


as though they knew the way

by ProfessorSpork



Category: Captain America (2011), Glee, Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 03:06:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorSpork/pseuds/ProfessorSpork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Avengers crossover with AU-ish Glee. Everyone's been trying to get him back into the world, but all Steve wants is to hold onto what he lost... until a chance meeting at a Broadway show from his past sends him hurtling straight into an unexpectedly bright future. Subtitled: Steve and Rachel Take Manhattan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> No, this is not crack. Yes, I'm serious. If you've never heard of this or me and want more information, you should probably check out my tumblr (same user name as here) under the tag "Steve and Rachel Take Manhattan." And thanks for giving such an unorthodox idea a chance.

It's kind of hard to blend in when you're a man of Steve Rogers' size, but really, he's doing his best. He made sure to get a seat in the last row of the balcony—his eyesight is better than other people's, and he didn't want to block anyone's view of the show because of his height. But still… these seats are on the smaller end, and he's not entirely sure what to do with his elbows.

He buries himself in his Playbill and tries to be nondescript.

The thing is, the big battle with the Chitauri—they're calling it "Portal Day" now—kind of leveled half of Midtown; rebuilding Manhattan has been a massive year-long project, funded dually by the government and a charitable donation from Stark Industries. It should have taken much longer than that, but attention was paid, and priorities shifted.

Steve is no stranger to patriotism or grief, but he has no way to share the baggage that everyone else carries when it comes to outsiders attacking New York; the twin towers both rose and fell while he was sleeping. From what Bruce has told him, he knows that back in 2001, a lot of people were scared to come back to the city after the 11th, which only made things worse—so at a press conference, the mayor said "The best thing you can do for our city is take in a Broadway show." It worked the first time, so he understands why they'd try it again.

Of course, this time around they'd had to rebuild the theaters, first.

There was a whole big party a few nights ago, for the grand reopening of the Great White Way. They'd gone to see Wicked—Tony's choice, but a good one once you got past his obnoxious reasoning. ("C'mon, this show was made for us. Badass ladies? Magic? A misunderstood green person? And—Cap, you like flying monkeys, right? Sorry Barton, no archery, but I'm sure once we get you a personality that extends past your job you'll find something to enjoy in there.") They were supposed to lay low and not draw attention to themselves, but Tony, being Tony, still managed to turn the whole thing into a massive red carpet event. He'd said something about being the best salesman in America, and how nothing would make people do something faster than wanting to copy him. And maybe he's right, but…

Honestly, Steve just wanted to watch a show in peace.

Broadway's changed a lot, since his day. He's not used to audiences that sit quietly and don't heckle; heck, he's not used to the fact that you can't just walk down Tin Pan Alley and hear the musicians at work, composing the next big hit. The theaters are huge now, decked with neon, and they're everywhere, and ticket costs are—well. He knows that the value of a dollar has changed, but when he hears "a hundred bucks," he thinks several months' worth of savings, not a casual night's spending.

But he'd wanted to see something, on his own time, with his own money. He's still getting used to the team, and though he likes them, he's still—sometimes he just needs time alone. And when he'd looked around at the billboards to see what other shows were playing, one name sounded familiar: Babes in Arms.

He  _remembers_ Babes in Arms. He went to see it when it opened, in the summer of 1937. Bucky took him for his seventeenth birthday, and the tickets had been two dollars each.

Thinking about that hurt, but what doesn't, these days? The need for the familiar was stronger than the need to avoid his feelings, so… here he is. At the back of the theater, waiting for the curtain to rise.

* * *

He wishes he'd remembered the plot a little better.

In his defense, it's been about eight years since he saw Babes in Arms—or seventy-six and a half, depending on how you count it—but if he'd remembered that the first duet is about feeling like you met your lover in a past life, maybe he'd have been able to prepare himself. Maybe he'd be able to breathe a little better right now.

He can't take his eyes off the woman playing Billie.

She doesn't look like Peggy. Not really. It's just that her brown hair curls in the exact same way, chestnut waves sprayed and held into place. It's  _period,_ now, but it's still what he expects to see on a girl, he can't help it. And she's beautiful.

And her  _voice._

Her voice would take his breath away even if he didn't have this damn weight in his chest, compressing his lungs. It pulls at him. As Billie and Val dance their way across the stage, it's all he can do not to think about the dance he missed, the pocket watch with the picture inside he lost in the crash, and the girl in the picture in the  _life_ he lost when he put that plane in the ocean.

But the songs are familiar, and the show takes him away.

Though the cast is talented, Billie outshines them all. Her rendition of My Funny Valentine puts a lump in his throat; he claps hard for her when she belts her heart out to Lady is a Tramp in the second act, and when she takes her bow at the end of the show, he's the first one on his feet. It's only when everyone is leaving that it occurs to him to look up her name in the Playbill still clutched in his hands.

Rachel Berry.

* * *

There's a crowd waiting outside the theater when he exits, and it takes him a moment to figure out why: behind a barricade, the woman who played Baby Rose and the man who played Gus are signing autographs, and taking pictures. People didn't do that, back in his day—but then, people seem to find actors a lot more glamorous, now.

And suddenly all he wants is a chance to meet Rachel Berry face to face.

He doesn't really understand this need to see her, this connection he feels out of the blue; all he knows is that listening to her sing touched a part of him that he thought had stayed frozen when the rest of him thawed. And he'd like to tell her that, if he could only find the words.

It's not like he has anywhere else to be tonight.

She doesn't come out for another ten minutes. People scream for her, when she does, and flashbulbs go off as she shakes hands and gives hugs. He stands back, hands shoved in his pockets; he wants to talk to her properly, and that can't happen if she's trying to move on to the next person. He can wait.

Her hair is straight, now, which he likes—it suits her, and forces him to remember where he is. When he is. And who she isn't.

Of course, thinking of it that way only reminds him of what he's been trying to forget, and when he comes back to himself she's on the street corner, waving an arm to hail a cab. He blinks once, and starts forward.

"Wait! Miss Berry—uh, Rachel—"

She turns around at the sound of her name; in a few long strides, he's caught up to her.

God, but she's little.

He didn't realize how small she was, on stage; her voice and personality were so big, it made her seem larger than life. In person, however, she's nearly a foot shorter than him; before his bulky frame, she seems downright fragile. Peggy was taller than him—or at least, she was until she suddenly wasn't anymore—and he's not sure how to approach a woman he could break so easily.

_You don't know how to approach_ _ **any**_ _woman,_ Bucky's voice mocks gently in the back of his mind, and he shakes his head to free the cobwebs, wanting to focus on the present.

Rachel smiles politely. "Yes?"

"Sorry. Um. I was just hoping… could you sign this?" He holds up his Playbill awkwardly.

"Of course! Who should I make it out to?" she asks, taking the booklet in one hand while she uses the other to brush her hair back behind her ear.

"Steve Rogers," he says softly.

She freezes.

It isn't the first time that he's been recognized, but it is the first time it's been by name instead of on sight. It's both flattering and strange, to watch her come to terms with the truth: how her mouth slowly drops open, pen going slack in her hand. The way she suddenly can't stop staring, eyes flickering from the breadth of his shoulders to the cut of his jaw.

"You're Captain America," she breathes.

He coughs uncomfortably, and slouches a little more. It's not that he's embarrassed, it's just… he doesn't like making a scene. "Yes, ma'am," he confirms.

"What are you doing waiting at the stage door? Shouldn't you—you could have come backstage, or—did you even sit in the front row? I would have seen you. Do you want a tour of the theater? I can—"

"Honestly, Miss Berry," he says, holding up a hand to stop her from hyperventilating, "I just want your autograph."

She lets out a short burst of slightly hysterical laughter; her eyes go wide, and she tries to rein herself in. "Captain America wants my autograph," she repeats incredulously.

He smiles at her. "If it makes you feel better, we could trade."

"Are you sure? I wouldn't want to be a trouble—"

"It's no trouble."

There's another pang, then, for an autograph he never quite got around to signing… but Phil's death came with a funeral, and a reason, and he was  _there,_ and it just doesn't hurt the same way as some other losses do. Maybe he should feel guilty for that, but he doesn't.

"Oh, darn, I don't—" Rachel pauses, rummaging around in her pocketbook, "There's nothing in here for you to sign. Would you mind coming inside with me? Just for a moment? There's a notebook in my dressing room; you could—"

"Sure," he says, interrupting her only because he has a hunch she'd have let herself ramble on until she talked herself into a corner. It's been years since he did that himself, but he still remembers the feeling.

"Okay." Her smile is radiant, and she's still clutching his Playbill as she leads him back inside the theater. It's a comfort to know that, for all that the outsides have changed, backstage areas still look exactly the same as he remembers; he saw the inner workings of plenty of theaters in his early days as Captain America, when he traveled the country with his dancing girls.

There's a gold star on her dressing room door, and—well. He can't help but feel a little better about everything when he sees it. Stars have meant a lot to him, over the years.

He follows her inside, and leans against the doorframe as she rummages through the drawer of her vanity. "I'm sure I left a… aha! Here it is." Grinning, she holds out a notebook and a pen for him to take.

While she busies herself with his Playbill, he stares down at the blank page she'd opened to, unsure of what to say. How honest is too honest? Should he sign it Steve Rogers, or Captain America? Maybe compromise and sign it Captain Steve Rogers?

"I'm ready to trade when you are," she teases gently from the other side of the room, and he clears his throat. He'd wanted to tell her how she made him feel—this is his only chance. He signs quickly:

_Miss Berry: Hearing you sing reminds me of home. –Steve._

He's sure to close the notebook before he hands it back to her; he doesn't want to have to watch her read it.

On the subway back to Brooklyn, he stares down at the Playbill in his hands, where she'd elegantly scrawled:  _I grew up listening to stories about you; you were my hero. You still are. It was an honor to be able to tell you a story in return. Rachel Berry_

She'd signed her name with a star.

* * *

He doesn't mean to come back.

And he certainly doesn't mean to  _keep_ coming back.

But the world has been quiet, lately, and everyone—including his therapist—has been telling him that he needs to go out and experience life more. Get out and see the city. When they said that, they probably didn't mean for him to go and hide in the one thing that looks even vaguely familiar anymore, but… he's not hiding. Not really. It's healing him, he thinks, which is why his attention is as rapt as ever as he watches Val and Billie first meet for the fifth time in as many days:

"I've never met anyone like you before—I think you're wonderful," Val says earnestly on stage. "On the other hand, that doesn't make much sense, does it?"

Billie—Rachel—laughs breathlessly, "Well, no, I guess it doesn't, I mean, we just met."

He's lost in her eyes. "Yeah…" The strings come in, tugging at Steve's heart, sparking memories. "Gee, that's funny."

"Funny…" she agrees, equally lost.

And he starts to sing.

" _It seems we stood and talked like this before—we looked at each other in the same way, then, but I can't remember where, or when. The clothes you're wearing are the clothes you wore—the smile you are smiling you were smiling, then, but I can't remember where, or when…_ "

It really is a beautiful song.

* * *

Once he finally got his bearings, when he'd woken up all those months ago—after they'd chased him down in a Times Square he barely recognized for what it was, after they'd escorted him back to their underground headquarters and gotten him a beer that could do nothing to calm his nerves—Peggy was the first person he asked about. Was she still alive? Could he see her?

He'd missed her by two years.

Two  _years._

It's both a forever and a blink of an eye.

He doesn't know how to get over it.

* * *

He gets to the theater the same time as always Monday night, only to find the box office closed, the doors locked and the lights off. He frowns.

"The theater is dark on Mondays," a melodic voice says behind him.

He turns around, and there's Rachel Berry, wearing a bright red vintage coat, complete with matching beret. It's not his era, but… it's not contemporary, either, and he can't help but appreciate the in-between quality of it. She keeps doing that. He likes it.

"Dark?" he asks, not sure what that means.

"It's our day off. We weren't sure if you knew; I thought you might show up here anyway." She gives him a shy smile. "I'm glad I was right."

"You knew?"

"That you've kept coming back? You're a bit hard to miss, you know. We've had a talk with the producers, and—from now on, the ushers are just going to let you in. No charge."

He frowns. "That's not necessary."

"Hey, we can't have you bankrupting the national defense budget just to see me si—um. See the show." He smiles at her slip, but she barrels on. "A-and it's the least we can do to thank you for everything you've done for us. Of course, they also wanted you to put endorsements on all of our ad campaigns, but… I managed to talk them out of it. Unless you want to, of course."

He lets that process for a second. It seems strange to him that it would be the star of the show's job to come and explain all this to him. "So… you drew the short straw to wait for me here and tell me that?"

She flushes. "Not exactly. I was actually wondering if—if you would like to get some coffee with me?"

He considers telling her that because of his super-charged system, coffee's as wasted on him as alcohol is, but—what would be the point? He finds her presence rousing and soothing in equal parts, and it would hardly be torture to spend more time with her.

"That'd be great," he says, then takes a look around. There's a Starbucks about two blocks down; it looks loud and crowded, but he knows it's popular. "Did you want to, uh…?"

She sees where he's looking and lets out a laugh. "Oh, gosh no. I was actually thinking of a place downtown, but—I suppose you don't take the subway, do you?"

He starts walking towards 42nd Street; she trots into place next to him. "Of course I do. I live in Brooklyn."

"Sure you do," she chuckles, and he frowns.

"No, I—I do."

She looks at him incredulously. "Why?"

"It's home. Always has been." He's kind of glad that he's walking next to her like this; the crowd naturally parts for him, and she's such a tiny thing. It's too easy to imagine people stepping on her.

"Isn't that a bit dangerous?"

At first he thinks she's talking about people stepping on her, and he has to take a moment to remember what they were discussing before that. "Living in Brooklyn?"

" _You_ living in Brooklyn. Or using the subway. Or even coming to the show every night. Aren't you a little… exposed?"

"My bosses aren't always happy about it, but, um. It was… advised… that my comfort level should be more of a priority than my security, at least as long as the Avengers are a last resort. That's why they made my identity public after… y'know." Even he knows better than to say _My therapist says I'll go crazy if they keep me locked up,_ but he thinks she understands his meaning. "Where downtown are we going?"

"Washington Square? There's a coffee place on Sullivan that's always quiet."

He nods, steering them towards the entrance of the NQR; they can transfer at 34th Street and take just about anything to West 4th.

"This isn't weird for you?" she asks, trying to keep up with his longer strides as he takes the stairs into the subway station two at a time. "How different it all is?"

"Honestly, the subway is one of the few things that hasn't changed too much. It took me a while to get used to using a MetroCard instead of tokens, but most of these lines were active in my day—just with fewer stops. It was easy to get used to." He pauses, thinking about it. "The seats are a little nicer, now."

She laughs.

* * *

He's never met a woman as easy to talk to as Rachel.

Part of it is that she's naturally chatty—which helps, as he's always been kind of a wallflower—but it's just… he can't explain it. He thinks it's something about her eyes. At first they reminded him of Peggy's, because of the similar deep brown color, but where Peggy'd always seemed to have impenetrable shields up that masked what she was really thinking, Rachel is completely unguarded and expressive. He can tell exactly what's on her mind just by looking at her, so he doesn't have to guess at what he needs to say to keep the conversation going.

That's new for him.

True to her word, the place she'd taken them to—Vbar—is relaxed and cozy. The whole staff knew her name and order on sight, and while at first he thought that was because she's famous, they've been here long enough for him to see that they do that for all their regulars.

He'd paid for her drink.

He's barely touched his own.

"Okay, okay, let me think," Rachel says, palms up. The degree to which she talks with her hands is immensely entertaining to him; he only ever sees it from Tony these days, but… he grew up in Brooklyn. It's like hearing someone speak a language he thought he'd forgotten. "You were probably too young for Porgy and Bess, right?"

"Sorry," he says, shrugging his agreement.

She waves him off. "Okay, thirties, thirties, this is so… Porter! How have I not asked about Cole Porter yet?"

"I never met Cole Porter," he chuckles, taking a sip of his coffee. It's lukewarm at best.

"No, I mean—you must have seen one of his shows. Anything Goes?"

"Didn't see it."

"Kiss Me, Kate."

"Saw it!" He sort of jumps in his seat in his enthusiasm. A few people turn around to look at him, and he ducks his head. "It was okay. My, um—Bucky, he was my best friend—he liked it more than I did."

She seems to sense his discomfort, and moves on immediately. "What about Pal Joey?"

He frowns. "Didn't like it."

" _So overrated_ , right?" she laughs, and actually reaches out her hand to squeeze his fingers for the briefest of moments. "Everyone always talks about what a classic it is, but I just don't see the appeal. The plot is a mess, and Joey is…" She trails off, looking for the right word.

"… kind of a jerk?" he supplies.

"Exactly! I'm all for complex protagonists, but he's so manipulative and… sleazy."

"I thought so too. Really took me out of it. I just… I don't like bullies," Steve mumbles, and she smiles brilliantly at him.

"Trust me, me neither." She smiles, still shaking her head in awe. "I just can't believe you actually were  _there_ for all of this. What was it like?"

He's been talking about this in his sessions with Dr. Berdino for a year, and he still doesn't know how to answer that question. "It was normal. I didn't know any different, I guess." Because that's the thing he's been starting to realize—that he's the only one seeing it from his side of the telescope. All Rachel can think is  _you were there,_ but for him… there's so much he  _wasn't_  there for. Which is much harder to get his head around.

"And you really saw the first production of Babes in Arms?"

"A few months after it opened. July of '37."

She shakes her head in disbelief. "That's… incredible." Her expression shifts, and she bites her lip, suddenly nervous. "Can I ask you a question?"

"You've been pretty good at it so far," he points out, and she blushes.

"Is—um. Do you think… am I better than Mitzi Green?" At his baffled face, she elaborates, "The original Billie."

"Oh! I… I don't know. I'm not really much of a theater critic. But you're…" he trails off. He already told her how he felt about her voice, in his autograph. He doesn't want to come on too strong or something. "Your whole production is… really good."

"Really good, huh?" she teases. "Do you think you'd be willing to put that in writing? Maybe let us plaster your face on all our billboards?"

He squirms. "I don't think that's a good idea. Did your producers really want me to do all of that?"

"Well, no—not after I told them it would might make us a target, or have SHIELD breathing down our necks. It's just that it's hard not to picture it when I know what an excellent spokesman you are."

She's completely lost him. "I… am?"

"Captain," she says warmly, "we both know I'm not the only Broadway star in the room right now."

"What?"

"Oh, come on.  _Who's strong and brave, here to save the American Way?_ " she sings lightly, practically under her breath so as not to draw any more attention to them.

The laugh that bubbles up from his throat is completely unexpected. "I haven't heard that in—wow. You know my theme song?"

"Of course! The old comics, the film reels… I was raised on that stuff. You're part of theater legend, you know—right up with the Ziegfeld Follies." She pauses, then looks at him calculatingly. "Did you ever see the Follies?"

He can't help it; he chuckles. "Yeah, once. Me'n Bucky snuck in through the back door. He knew a stage hand at the Winter Garden, I guess he must've bribed him." Steve shakes his head, still snickering. "I was only fifteen."

Rachel's smile melts away, face turning suddenly intense. "What year was this?"

"Uh, '36? It was April; I remember because my allergies were terrible, I couldn't stop sneezing. Bucky thought for sure we'd be caugh—um. Are you okay?"

" _You saw Fanny Brice,_ " she hisses, voice strained with emotion.

He smiles cautiously. "Yes ma'am. Well, the left side of her, anyway."

Rachel's lips contort over and over as she pulls her mouth to each side of her face, blinking rapidly. "You—I—you saw  _Fanny Brice._ "

"Is that… okay?"

She laughs breathlessly, like she did the other night when he asked her for her autograph. " _Okay?_ How can you even—did she do Baby Snooks?"

"Yeah," he says, and the look of half-jealousy, half-delight that crosses her face has him grinning in earnest. "She was a heck of a performer, but I have to say… she's not really who I imagined people would be remembering these days."

"No, you don't understand, there's—they wrote—" Rachel stutters, stumbling over her words in excitement, "Her story was made famous when they wrote a musical about her life, starring Barbra Streisand… who you've never even heard of, clearly, how is that  _possible_ —but. She's been a life long hero, for me. I have always wanted to play that role." She smiles self-deprecatingly, and then takes a comically large breath to calm herself. "I'm sorry. What was I saying, before I got on a tangent?"

"I'm a theater legend," he reminds her, and tries not to choke on how false the words sound.

"Right, of course. You are! And an American hero, besides. My father is a huge fan; has been his whole life."

Steve does the math quickly in his head, and—in all probability, Rachel's father is likely around the same as Agent Coulson.

…Was.

"It's an honor," he murmurs, because he doesn't know what else he can say. He still doesn't know what he's doing half the time, and trying to live up to this  _legend_  everyone wants him to be is… it's exhausting.

"I meant what I said on that Playbill, you know," Rachel adds softly. "You were… my favorite bedtime story, once upon a time. And what you wrote, in my notebook? I can't tell you how much it touched me."

He has no idea how they went from Fanny Brice to this.

"I meant every word. You have a gift, Miss Berry."

"Just Rachel, please."

"Then don't call me Captain," he counters.

"Okay," she says, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. For a moment, they sit in silence; then: "So, not a coffee drinker, huh?"

He glances down at his cup, which is—indeed—still almost full, and now stone cold. "Guess I'm more of a tea person, actually. Picked it up in England," he says, mouth going dry as the memories return.

Eventually, her voice floats through, derailing his thoughts. "Did you serve there long?"

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to push away images of Peggy and Howard and the Cabinet War Rooms. He'd grown fond of London, in his day.

"A while," he says.

"Well then, I definitely know where I'd like to take you next time."

His eyes shoot open. "Next time?"

She ducks her head, suddenly bashful. "Well, I was hoping that maybe next Monday, when the theater's dark again, we could… talk some more?"

"I'd like that," he says immediately, words tumbling out of his mouth before he can even think about them.

"Great," she breathes. "And you'll come back to the show?"

"Tomorrow night, same as always," he reassures her, but she's not looking at him anymore—she's digging through her purse, engrossed in a search. After a few moments, she emerges victorious, pen in hand.

"This is my number," she says, reaching out for a napkin and scrawling a series of digits on the paper. "You could, um, call me maybe, if you wanted to." She frowns, seeming to consider her words. "Pretend I didn't just say that."

"Why?" he asks, and she gives him a look he knows all too well. "Oh. You just made a reference, huh?"

"A pretty embarrassing one."

"Well, your secret's safe with me," he says, standing up and offering her a hand to help her out of her chair. He smiles at her mumbled thanks, and makes sure to pocket the napkin as they exit.

It's much darker than he remembered when they emerge out onto the street; he really lost track of time.

"Can I walk you to the subway?" he offers.

"Oh, no—I live in the West Village, I can walk from here. Besides, it's such a nice night."

"Well, can I walk you home?"

Her expression is part incredulous, part awed. "You really are Captain America, aren't you?"

"For a while now," he says, and she laughs. He only half meant it as a joke, but he can't stop himself from smiling back.

"I'll say. Thank you, but no—I'll be fine, and I'm sure I've kept you long enough. Have a good night, Steve."

He blinks, and it takes him a second to catch up as he watches her walk away. "Goodnight."


	2. Chapter 2

Steve spends his Tuesday afternoon wandering around the West Village. It's a cool day for June, so for once he feels as invisible as he's meant to, wearing his conspicuously inconspicuous hoodie and sunglasses for stealth. (That's the thing about going public with his identity—even though he gets  _you look like Captain America_ way more often than anything else, it still makes him anxious.)

Part of him thinks he shouldn't be here; that he's overstepping a boundary or invading Rachel's privacy, somehow. After all, she didn't ask him to walk her home. But the rest of him is unfamiliar with the area, and just… wanted to be able to picture it properly. He still thinks of it as Little Bohemia, and it's good for him to see what Rachel's neighborhood is actually like, so he doesn't have to worry about whether or not she's safe.

It's not like he expects to run into her; he just wants to know a little more.

Really.

(At any rate, it feels a little more productive than checking in on the same loop of consignment shops and second-hand stores throughout the five boroughs for new-old items from his past, which is how he's spent many a weekday in the last few months.)

When he was younger, he always avoided everything on the Hudson below the Meatpacking District; the street grid there was, and still is, different than the rest of the city, and he always got lost. Going over the bridge into Manhattan was a rare enough adventure—not being able to find his way back, scrawny as he'd been, had been a little too much for him to handle.

It's different, now. The niceness of the neighborhood, with its tree-lined streets and brownstones, no longer intimidates him. Said streets are a little easier to navigate now, even though they're not parallel—he can find north instinctually these days. He's big enough that no one bothers him.

But most importantly, every sidewalk seems to sing with possibility. Any one of the windows above him could be hers.

God, she had him  _laughing_ about Bucky yesterday.

He passes bodegas and laundromats, indulging in fantasies of mediocrity. The idea of Rachel just living a life here, cleaning her clothes or picking up a bottle of water and a bagel… it's so ordinary. Soothingly so, when he has no other way of thinking of her than as Billie on stage, or as the beautiful girl—woman—across the restaurant table.

For all his time selling war bonds backed by a whole chorus of dancing girls, he's never been comfortable around actresses. It always felt like the magic was ruined for him; he was there when they put on their makeup and false lashes and falser smiles. Some of them were missing their sweethearts overseas, and others were looking to be the next Judy Garland, but none of them went on that stage as themselves. It made him nervous; he could never tell if they were actually as worldly as they seemed, or if they were just that good at pretending.

Rachel Berry seems like the most genuine person he's ever met. It's either the greatest of masks of the most earnest of truths, and he can't get over the feeling of  _wanting to know her._

He wonders what she must think of him.

* * *

Rachel is just a little bit beside herself.

Her life… her life feels like a dream.

And she doesn't even mean that in a whimsical, metaphorical way. Literally, she dreamed this once. She'd dreamed that she was playing Fanny Brice—an old standby of hers—but when she'd gone to the stage door after the show, Captain Rogers was waiting there, wearing his dress uniform just like he had at the press conference where he'd revealed his identity a few months after Portal Day.  _You were incredible,_ he said in the dream.  _I'm a big fan of yours._

_I'm a big fan of_ _ **yours,**_ she'd returned, and then… well, and then the two of them had spent the day antiquing and she remembers there was something very important about going to see the circus, which is ridiculous because Rachel hates circuses in her waking hours—they promote animal cruelty and cheap showmanship—but in the dream it had seemed critical. But thus is the way of dreams, and she'd woken up and moved on.

Until it came true.

She's always called herself slightly psychic, but this is a bit much even for her. After all, Neil Patrick Harris has never actually called her up to ask if she'd babysit his twins, despite her most fervid dreaming; in what world would  _Captain America_  want to have coffee with her?

She spent the whole walk home pinching herself.

He's just so—he's so—

He is at once nothing and everything like she imagined he'd be. She'd anticipated the stoic disposition, but it comes off as polite, not—not _serious._ Just mindful. Pensive, maybe. And he's fun to be around, like… like he's happy to have a reason to be happy. Her cast mates tease and complain because she talks about him so much, but she can't help but be consumed by the mystery of him. She's an actress. A student of the human condition, if you will. He's been her hero since she was old enough to fear the monsters under her bed, and she doesn't think it's so terrible to want to get to know him better.

And lord knows he's not bad to look at. The neatly parted hair, his blue eyes, and that  _body…_

And then there's the other part. The part where he's been in the audience every night for almost a week. For her. And, yes, for the rest of the cast, and probably for nostalgia as well, but…

That means something to her. His attentiveness to the arts, his appreciation for her, his support. Maybe he didn't come to see the show for her, at least not at first, but he's  _staying,_ and she's never met anyone like that before who didn't have an ulterior motive.

She can easily see herself getting addicted to this feeling.

* * *

That night, an usher comes to find Steve during intermission and tells him Miss Berry has invited him backstage after the show. The elderly couple sitting to his right give him these envious, curious looks, and he shrugs sheepishly.

"We're, ah, we're old friends." He really cannot stand the way they're staring at him. "Would you like me to introduce you?"

Which is how he finds himself giving Mr. and Mrs. DeWitt an impromptu tour of the dressing rooms after the final curtain.

"…And, um, this door is Rachel's," he concludes weakly, before giving a light knock. "Rachel?"

The door opens almost immediately, as if she'd been poised behind it, waiting for him. Her grin is massive; her hair is down and curling into damp ringlets—like she just took a fast shower—and she's wearing this deep purple silk robe… thing… that shows enough thigh that Steve has to make a conscious effort to keep his eyes on her face.

He clears his throat and takes a step back so she can see they have company. "Um, Rachel, these are my new friends Harold and Prudence. They… really wanted to meet you."

The readiness with which she snaps into her accommodating starlet persona is fascinating to him. She graciously invites these strangers into her dressing room, signs their playbills, and endures two anecdotes about their grandchildren while Steve tries not to make a nuisance of himself. Glancing around the room, he notices that the page of her notebook he signed has been torn out, his autograph and inscription taped onto her lit mirror.

He just about manages to regain control of his facial muscles by the time Rachel flags down a passing dresser and asks her to please escort the DeWitts outside.

"Sorry," Steve mumbles as they leave. "They heard me get invited back here and I just thought…"

"It's fine," Rachel assures him. "To be honest, it's still kind of a thrill to know that people want to meet  _me._ It doesn't always feel real."

"I wanted to meet you," he feels the need to remind her, and she smiles.

"That doesn't quite feel real, either."

The corners of his mouth turn up without permission once more. "So, why the invitation tonight?"

"Oh, I wanted you to meet a few of the cast members—but then, we've been held up. Most of them will be outside signing by now, but you can meet Jesse, at least." She chuckles. "He takes longer to get ready than I do."

She takes his hand without warning, pulling him back out into the hallway. She's still only wearing her little robe thing, and he can't help but be fazed by how casually and confidently she walks around the theater. He's never had that kind of self-assurance.

"Won't you get cold?" he hears himself ask as she leads him past several doors.

"What? Oh," she laughs, when she realizes what he's talking about. "Normally I would, but I think there's something wrong with the air conditioning in my dressing room; I've been overheating all night."

Steve's still processing that—trying to figure out if there was some sort of hidden clue he was meant to pick up on—when she brings them to a stop and knocks firmly on her costar's door. It opens a second later.

"Rachel," the actor greets smoothly, opening his door just wide enough so that he could lean against the jamb. "Visiting before I've finished my moisturizing routine? You know we have rules about that."

"Believe it or not," Rachel says, amused, "some things are more important than your face. And anyway, there's someone I want you to meet. Steve, this is our Val, Jesse St. James. Jesse, this is Captain Steve Rogers."

"It's an honor to meet you, sir," Jesse says, a smirk lingering in his tone even as he holds out a hand. "We were beginning to think she'd made you up."

"A hundred percent real," Steve affirms, discovering an instant dislike for this overconfident man who gets to kiss Rachel every night. And if his handshake is a little firmer than he usually allows for civilians… well, he's done worse.

As Jesse cradles his right hand to his chest, massaging it lightly, he adds, "You're not as tall as I pictured you."

"Jesse!" Rachel reprimands, swatting at his shoulder.

"Actually, I get that a lot," Steve admits, more for Rachel's benefit. "That and that they thought my nose was smaller."

"Heard that one before," Rachel grumbles.

To Steve's surprise, Jesse's attention snaps to Rachel immediately. "None of that. They said that about Barbra, too; the media is fickle, but _you_ are lovely."

"What, uh, he said," Steve adds fumblingly, a second after he thinks he should've, but now he can't stop staring at Rachel's face, trying to find a flaw. "But—do people really say that about you? You're—you look—I mean, I've seen women who—but you're so—"

He feels like he's in the back of a car with Peggy again, and it's all he can do to keep himself from saying  _dame._

"I think I covered that with  _lovely_ ," Jesse says, sounding like he's holding back laughter, "but your way has a certain charm."

"I'm not trying to compete with you," Steve snaps, losing his patience. "I just don't understand how anyone could—"

He's cut off by Rachel, who breaks down suddenly into a spectacular coughing fit. She frowns, bracing herself against the wall with one hand while she uses the other to cover her mouth.

Once it's passed, she looks up at Jesse and says, "We didn't mean to keep you. You should finish getting dressed; we've kept the fans waiting long enough."

"Unless you intend to go out in that," Jesse retorts, giving her bare legs and silky robe a lingering once-over, "you should get dressed too."

"Point taken. Steve?"

He blinks at her expectant expression. "I'll, um, walk you back to your room. Nice meeting you," he adds to Jesse as an afterthought, though he's not sure if it was.

"And you," Jesse says. They're halfway down the hall when he calls out, "Oh, and Rachel?"

"Yes?"

"Most people would just clear their throat to end an awkward conversation. More subtle."

She gives him half a smile. "Go big or go home, right?"

He laughs as he closes his dressing room door.

"So that was Jesse," she summarizes unnecessarily as she leads Steve back to her room.

"He's… quite a character," he says, for lack of anything better.

She chuckles. "You have to be, in this business. Theater is a haven for weirdos, geeks and the socially inept."

"You seem pretty normal to me."

"Steve Rogers, that just may be the nicest thing you've ever said to me," she smiles as she pauses in front of her gold star. "So, I guess this is me. Do you… want to stick around while I sign?"

"I probably shouldn't. I don't want to, um—be a distraction."

"You should probably go back through the house, then; if you leave through the back door they'll think you're someone important."

"Aren't I?"

"Of course you are; that's the problem. Do you remember where the door into the theater is? Stage left?"

"I'll find it."

She hesitates before asking one last question. "You still have my number, right?"

The napkin she wrote it on is still folded neatly in his pocket. He can feel himself blushing; not for the first time, he wishes the serum had cured him of that. "I do. I'm just not very good at… cell phones."

"That's okay," she chuckles. "I'll see you tomorrow night?"

"Yeah. Well, I'll be in the audience, so I don't know if you'll see me, but I'll see you," he stutters. Embarrassed at his inability to keep cool, he takes a deep breath and summarizes: "Yes, tomorrow."

* * *

Only he doesn't see her tomorrow. Because as he's ushered to his seat the following evening, he notices a little piece of paper nestled into the centerfold of his program:  _This evening, the part of Billie will be played by Harmony Lindsay-Pearce._

He can't imagine what Rachel would need an understudy for; she was  _fine_ yesterday. He saw her. They talked.

The first act passes in a blur. He tries to focus on the music, when it comes, but the scenes in between seem inconsequential—he shifts in his seat and fretting, turning over potential clues in his head. She'd coughed. She'd mentioned she felt warm.

He spends intermission debating whether or not he should call her.

He spends act two wondering what on earth he'd say if he did.

(It's silly, and she doesn't need him, except maybe it isn't and what if she does?)

Halfway to the A train he gives up, takes out his phone, digs the napkin out of his pocket and fumblingly dials.

"…Hello?" a weak, stuffed-up voice answers after a few rings.

"Um, hey, Rachel?"

"This is she. May I ask who's calling, please?" she asks, and he can actually  _hear_ her dizziness. His lips twist in sympathy.

"Oh, sorry, it's, um—Steve. Rogers." The ensuing silence lasts for so long that he clears his throat and asks, "Rachel? Are you… there?"

" _Yes hi_ ," she says quickly, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

"Is everything alright?"

"Why wouldn't things be alright?" she asks, her voice curiously high-pitched.

"Well, I mean… you're not here. And I was just wondering if you were okay."

"Oh, I'm fine," she says, though it comes out more like  _I'b fide,_ "I just have a bit of a cold. Not so under the weather that I couldn't perform—I wanted to come in—but I was told not to risk my voice."

He chuckles at her stubbornness; somehow he's sure that conversation didn't go quite as smoothly as she's describing. "It was—um. I missed you during the show."

"You did? That's really—wait. Was Harmony okay?" Rachel asks, tone suddenly shifting from touched to neurotic.

"She was! It was good—different—but… um. She's no you," he admits, squirming a little at how he sounds. His toes curl nervously in his shoes, flexing out his anxiety. "But are you sure you're alright? Do you need anything?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know, soup?"

There's another long pause, then: "Are you for real?"

"Last I checked," he says, blushing when she laughs weakly into the phone.

"Captain America wants to get me soup because I don't feel well," she reiterates.

"You have to admit, it does sound like something I would do," he says, daring to joke; his confidence builds when she laughs again.

After another pause, she ventures, "Thank you for checking up on me."

"Is that a no to the soup? I don't mind."

"Steve—"

"Feed a cold, starve a fever. That's what they say, right?" If he had a nickel for every time Bucky said that to him, handing over the larger share of food because Steve was ill…

"Thank you, but I'm fine. Jesse came over earlier and made me oatmeal."

"Oh."

To his surprise, she chuckles again. "You really don't like him, do you?"

"I… I didn't like Tony Stark when I first met him either. Anything's possible."

"Just wait until I tell him you compared him to Tony Stark; he'll have a field day." Her laughter peters into a coughing fit, and Steve frowns into his phone.

"I should let you go. Let you rest. I, um. I hope you feel better."

"You want me to feel better, you just show up at the theater tomorrow, okay?"

"Wouldn't miss it."

* * *

But he does. Miss it.

Because that night, he's woken up after a mere hour of sleep when JARVIS chimes, " _Captain Rogers? Call coming in for you from Stark Tower._ "

It takes a second for the meaning of that to sink in. Groaning, Steve lifts himself from his bed and stumbles to the screen array set up next to his bookcase. "Put it through."

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead," Tony says as the video comes to life. "I'd say  _hope I didn't wake you_ , but that would be a lie. You're so cute when you're all rumpled."

"Speak of the devil," Steve mutters. "I was talking about you earlier."

"About how much you appreciate my good looks and dashing charm?"

"About how much I used to dislike you, actually."

"Used to? I'm touched. Look at me. I might be blushing."

"Is there a point to this call, Mr. Stark?"

"Now I'm Mr. Stark again? See, I thought we were making progress.  _Some_ body got up on the wrong side of the bed."

" _Tony._ "

He sobers. "You're gonna have to get over here; a situation's developing and we're being flown out on the helicarrier in an hour."

Steve wipes at his face, trying to wake himself up. "Who all is coming?"

"Everybody but Thor; Bruce is with me, and Maxwell Smart and 99 are already with Fury."

"Wait. Who? What about Clint and Natasha?"

"I just said they're with Fury; don't you listen?"

"Couldn't  _Bruce_ have called me?" Steve groans.

"He could have, but where's the fun in that? Take your bike; you don't have time to wait for a train. You can suit up when you get here."

The streets aren't empty, not even at this hour—the city barely slept in his day, and now it's more of an insomniac than ever. But even with the light pollution hiding the stars, an eerie peace pervades New York at night. Not a quiet, but a lull.

He tries not to let it bother him, as he rides towards the Brooklyn Bridge, but he can't help but think it: he doesn't know when he'll be back, and for the first time, there's someone that might miss him.

He's not sure if it's better or worse if she will.

* * *

Rachel has a number of pre-show rituals.

She knows it's silly and superstitious, but then so is theater—and actually, some of her best friendships at NYADA started when she found people running through the same embarrassing little routines that she had. It had opened up the door to a whole new world for her: one of confident self-deprecation, where she could acknowledge who she was without having to be ashamed. Others have outgrown their habits, but she holds onto them, even now.

Which is how, after she has done a few basic yoga poses and had her mug of warm water with honey and lemon and sung  _red leather, yellow leather_ up and down her scales, she finds herself peering through the curtain at stage right. Just as she's always done, to make sure that nothing's gone terribly wrong in the audience.

Tonight's the first night where something  _has._

"He's not here," she says aloud, to whomever is close enough to hear her. Which turns out to be Lillian, their assistant stage manager.

"Who's not?"

"Steve Rogers. He's not here."

Lillian smiles kindly, as Rachel knows she always does when she's trying not to roll her eyes. "Of course he's not here, Rach; don't you watch the news?"

She doesn't, actually. She keeps up with current events, of course, but she does it online—she finds news channels to be hyperbolic, sensationalist and filled with negative energy. She's learned, over time, to avoid things that encourage her anxiety, and she always feels like a suspicious hypochondriac after watching an hour of cable news.

Now, however, she's thinking that might have to change.

Rachel looks around wildly. "How long until places?"

"Five, but with the overture you really have more like seven. I'm not holding the show for you, though, understood?"

"Right, of course, thank you," she says, but she's already halfway to the green room, where she knows they have a TV with a remote that works.

She spends her last moments before curtain watching CNN on mute. It looks like something out of science fiction: the Avengers, a partially decimated city, a giant killer robot. It's hard not to flash back to Portal Day; it all seems so fresh. But even though it's not New York and she's not in it, this fight she's witnessing (god, she doesn't even know where in the world they are) seems almost harder to take.

It's just… incredibly upsetting, watching Steve try and defend himself by ducking behind a shield that seems no thicker than her fingernail.

She tries to think back to her childhood, when she could sit through five Captain America movies in a row without getting bored or scared. To her, that costume meant invulnerability, and power, and surety. No fall was too high, no explosion too big, no situation too perilous. He'd always make it through; that was his job. That was what the helmet and shield meant.

Now all she can think is  _that's Steve under there._

That night, she sings through My Funny Valentine with a lump in her throat no amount of swallowing could alleviate.

The worst part is that she thinks it may be the best she's ever done it.


	3. Chapter 3

"So, how have you been spending your time lately?"

He was supposed to have another week to figure out how to answer this question.

Unfortunately, after spending most of Sunday debriefing with the brass about the mission, they decided to just move up his monthly therapy session because he was already at headquarters. And Steve knows he should be grateful that everyone made it through the weekend safely, and that he's in a place where they can cut his sessions to monthly and he's mostly okay, but now…

It's just that he spent most of the last hour talking about the mission, and how he's doing with the team, and there are only a few minutes left. He doesn't want to rip off the bandage yet, he doesn't want to use a different part of his brain, he doesn't want to think at all. He wants to go home.

"I, uh, I've been getting into the city a lot more. Midtown."

"Oh?" Dr. Berdino does this a lot. Asks questions that aren't questions to get him to talk more. (She's also asked him to call her Claire—and he does, in person—but, y'know. One step at a time.)

"Yeah. You know. Broadway."

"What shows have you seen?"

He swallows. "Babes in Arms, a bunch of times."

"What else?"

"No, just…" He sighs. He walked right into that one. "Just Babes in Arms. A bunch of times."

Dr. Berdino looks at him curiously. "Why is that?"

"It… I saw it before. Back when… when it first came out, I guess."

"In the forties?"

"The thirties, but yeah."

"Can I ask how much is 'a bunch?'"

He reaches up to rub the back of his neck. "I've seen it… just about every night for the past two weeks. Not counting the past few days."

"That's a lot."

"I know," he says, staring at his reflection in the finish of her dark wood desk. He doesn't want to see the look on her face.

"Why do you think you keep going back?"

Rachel's face pops into his head; he pushes the thought away immediately. "It reminds me of the guy I used to be. Or maybe… I dunno. That there used to be a guy I used to be."

"That makes sense."

"That doesn't make it any less obsessive. I know that kind of behavior is—that I'm—" he swallows an apology before he can make it, because they've had that conversation already. About how he doesn't have to be sorry for what happened to him. "I just feel like I shouldn't need crutches like that anymore. I shouldn't be clinging."

"It's natural to want reminders of your past, Steve. They're hard to come by, and it's easy to disassociate when there's so little that seems familiar. Do you feel the same way every time, watching the show?"

"How do you mean?"

"Like… well, let's look at it from another angle. Last March, we talked a lot about Langston Hughes and his poetry. You seemed to find great comfort in it—not because it was beautiful, but because it was a voice that felt familiar to you."

He nods; it's all he can do. Harlem felt about as far away from Brooklyn as the moon when he was a kid, but it seems much closer in hindsight.

"You told me that when you read something like 'Democracy,' or 'Let America Be America Again,' that it didn't matter how many times you read it, it always stirred something in you. That it helped you to feel. Is that the same sensation you get when you attend performances of Babes in Arms?"

He opens his mouth to say yes, but the words stop in his throat. Because that's not true. At least, not anymore.

The truth is, every night he goes it reminds him a little less of the one time he saw it with Bucky, and a little more of every time he's seen it since—Rachel's voice slowly but surely drowning out Mitzi Green's. He thinks back to the night before he left, when her understudy went on in her stead; how he spent his evening distracted and unimpressed, desensitized to the music.

He thinks about how the more time he spends with Rachel, the less he feels like he needs to see the show at all. Because somewhere along the way, talking to her became a lot more special to him than watching her.

"Steve?" Dr. Berdino prompts. He wonders how long he's been silent.

"The way I feel about the show changed, because I started seeing the lead actress outside of it."

"Seeing her as in…?"

"We talk. We went for coffee one time; I'm supposed to meet her again tomorrow."

"Do you like her?"

His head snaps up. "I don't—I'm not—"

She smiles at him. "This isn't the playground, Steve, and I'm not in the business of starting rumors. I mean, do you enjoy spending time with her? It doesn't feel like an obligation, or give you anxiety?"

"No, she's…"  _wonderful,_ he wants to say, but he feels silly, like a schoolboy with a crush. "No anxiety at all. She loves to talk, and I can just… listen. It's nice."

He winces internally. He should have gone with wonderful.

"It's good that you're forging bonds outside of SHIELD; you don't have to feel bad about that. You deserve friends."

"I guess," he hedges.

She glances at the clock. "We're just about out of time, but let me wrap this up: I know you're dubious about the healthiness of seeing the show so many times, but you're  _aware_ of it. And it seems to me that you're already moving on from the compulsion. Does that sound right?"

"It does, but doesn't that just mean I'm displacing all of those feelings onto Rachel instead?" he asks, and it only occurs to him as he says it that it's the first time he's said her name out loud.

Dr. Berdino only looks at him. "I don't know. Does it?"

* * *

As always, Natasha is sitting in the waiting room as he exits, legs crossed while she flips idly through a magazine. (He sometimes amuses himself with the idea that it's the same one every time—a prop she carries with her to complete the character she's created.) He supposes she must have the session after his, though she's never talked about it.

"Everything okay?" she asks as he passes her to get to the door.

He stops, because this is what he likes about Natasha. How she'll ask these terse, superficial questions—seemingly vacant chitchat—but she'll look at you when she does. Eye contact and full attention. Like she would listen if the answer were no.

He's never said no, but he's sure of this anyway.

"Yeah. You?"

"No complaints," she says, lifting a single shoulder.

"Did you get your hip looked at yet? That fall you took was pretty—"

"I will after this," she assures, cutting him off. He knows she won't, but he appreciates the courtesy of the lie. It's better than the empty  _I'm fine_ he's sure most people would get.

"I should get going. Stay safe out there," he says, as he always does when he talks to anyone on active duty.

Her lips turn up for a fraction of a second. "You too."

* * *

He spends the rest of his evening staring at the Playbill that's been sitting on his kitchen table for days; he thinks about Dr. Berdino's last question, and reads and re-reads the inscription.

_I grew up listening to stories about you; you were my hero. You still are. It was an honor to be able to tell you a story in return._

Signed Rachel Berry, with a star.

There's just something about her that makes him… want to try harder. He remembers how he talked down to Fury, about  _trying to get me back into the world,_ and how somehow Rachel's doing just that without even knowing it. Forcing him to participate in his life, to talk, to explain himself.

He thinks about Langston Hughes.  _I sat there singing her songs in the dark. She said; 'I do not understand the words.' I said; 'There are no words.'_

( _"I don't know. Does it?"_ )

He wants so much to know what they'll be to each other, because he has no idea how to describe what they are.

* * *

She doesn't know what to  _wear._

Rachel is not this girl anymore. Or at least, she tries very hard not to be this girl… as much as she used to, anyway. But as long as everything goes right—and she's putting a lot of faith in the fact that it will—tonight will be the first time she's seen Steve in days. And she just…

She'd just feel a lot better about the whole thing if she had a bit of control.

Five times she picks up her cell phone to call Kurt for fashion advice, and five times she puts it down again because she's a grown woman and more than capable of making her own decisions. (Once, and only once, she considers asking her twitter followers, but she gets as far as opening the app on her phone before she realizes what a horrible idea that is.) She had all weekend to think about it, though, and all it did was give her lots of room to second-guess herself.

And the weather is doing nothing for her hair.

"You're being silly," she tells herself in the mirror, because not even years of being on stage have curbed her of the need to narrate her life. "Steve doesn't care about how you look, and he doesn't know the difference between checker and gingham. Just chill."

She doesn't think she's chilled since she dated Finn Hudson—heck, chillhasn't even been in her  _vocabulary_  since she dated Finn Hudson—but it's all she's got, at the moment.

That, and a pile of clothing on her bed the size of her first car.

She sighs and tries again.

* * *

It's raining when he emerges from the subway on Monday night, and Rachel is ethereal.

It's the only word he has for it. She's waiting for him under the marquis, keeping dry—only the neon lights shining through the haze of perpetual damp in the air make her raincoat iridescent, casting halos around her skin and shooting gold through her hair. All she's doing is standing next to a larger-than-life promotional photograph of herself plastered onto the doors of the theater, yet somehow… she's glowing.

His fingers itch for charcoal.

"You could have called me," she says as he draws up next to her and closes his umbrella, but he can tell by the way her eyes light up that she isn't mad.

"I was kind of busy," he mumbles anyway, with a lift of his shoulders.

She bites at her lip. "I saw on the news. Giant killer robots often on your to-do list?"

"Ultron, and I sure hope not." He gives her a quick once-over. "So, you feel better?"

"Sorry?"

"You had a cold. You feel better?"

She purses her lips before her mouth pulls into a smile. "Yes, I feel better. Thank you for remembering. And what about you? You took some tough blows out there."

"Good as new," he reassures her, spreading his arms out to let her see. "And, um. You look good, too. I mean. You look great."

"Thanks," she says, blushing. "I love wearing this coat—it's so Casablanca."

He blinks at her, because the design doesn't look particularly Moroccan to him, so he must've missed something. "How?"

"I—Casablanca? Come on. As Time Goes By? 'Here's looking at you, kid?' Ringing any bells?"

"Sorry, no."

"But it was right when you were—wait. Where were you in 1943?"

"Already overseas."

"Oh my god, you missed  _Casablanca!_ "

"What  _is_ Casabl—?"

"It's a movie. It's  _the_ movie. It defined your generation. I can't—I don't even know what to do with this information."

"I guess I'll have to see it."

"You guess?" she repeats, voice getting shrill. "You have to! Tonight! Right now!"

"Right now?" he asks her teasingly, and she pauses before chuckling lightly, shaking her head.

"Or… any other time that isn't now, because we made dinner plans. Sorry, I get carried away sometimes."

"Don't apologize for being passionate about things. It's—I like it."

She smiles, and leans to the side to glance behind him at the street. "Look at that; the rain's stopped. I guess the universe is on our side tonight."

"Guess so," Steve agrees as he tucks his umbrella under his arm, though the tiniest part of him can't help but wonder if it was Thor trying to help a buddy out. He doesn't know how any of it works—the different dimensions, the powers, the weather, any of it—but Steve wouldn't put it past Thor anyway. He casts around for something to talk about as they set off into the night. "Did you have a good week?"

She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. "Um, not too bad."

"Show went okay?"

"Yeah. Smaller crowds at the stage door the past few days, because of the weather, but that's to be expected. What about you? Anything interesting happen?" She laughs at herself. "Aside from saving the world, I mean."

"Uneventful, really. Not much to tell. I hated missing you," he blurts, and her hair fans out at the force of her head whipping around.

"You missed me?"

"No—I mean, yes—I mean. We kept missing  _each other_. Which was… annoying," he finally settles on, though he doesn't think it's the word he means. "Sorry. I could have phrased that better."

Rachel's walking two steps of him and backwards to keep eye contact. "Don't apologize; I liked the way you phrased it just fine. Feel free to elaborate as much as you w—"

There is a honk and a screech of tires, and Steve's moving before he can even process the stimuli his body is reacting to—reaching forward, pulling Rachel out of the way of the taxi that's only just come into his peripheral vision. His eyes sweep to the license plate automatically, and he commits it to memory as best he can with the insane pounding of his ears. (Rachel's upper arms fit perfectly in his hands; for a second, he forgets how to let her go.)

"Hey! We had the light!" he shouts uselessly, raising a fist in frustration before sighing and muttering, "Maniac." He looks to Rachel, returning his right hand to its resting place on her arm. "You okay?"

"Yeah, fine—should've looked both ways." He releases her to pick up his dropped umbrella, and she immediately replaces his grip with her own hands, hugging herself. " _Wow,_ you're fast. And… strong…" she trails off, realizing what she's saying.

His brow scrunches. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No, not at all, just caught me off guard." To his surprise, she seems to be repressing giggles despite her evident shock.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. It's just—I didn't think you were allowed to yell at cab drivers. That was the most like a New Yorker I've seen you act."

Steve shrugs uncomfortably, readjusting the way his jacket falls on his shoulders. "I never said I was a boy scout. Besides, it's like Bucky always said—you've got to stand up to those guys, or they'll run right over you. Literally."

"Good to know the drivers haven't improved in the better part of a century."

"Nope, it's pretty much the same. Fewer horses, now." Rachel's face darkens to a degree he's never seen before. "What?"

"I… the fact that there are still carriage horses in this city is something of a personal vendetta of mine. It's—well, it's not that long of a story, but I'll explain on the way. Shall we?"

* * *

She takes him to a place downtown called Tea and Sympathy—a storefront on a small block she refers to as "Little Britain." It stands next to a fish and chip place called A Salt and Battery, and there's a sweet shop and grocer, too.

"I had no idea this was here," he breathes.

"Best city in the world," Rachel says proudly, as if she built it herself.

"Even with the crazy cabbies?"

"Especially with the crazy cabbies," she assures him, leading him inside.

They're seated almost immediately, hunkered into little wooden chairs in a cozy corner. The lighting is dark and intimate, and he appreciates the feeling of privacy.

"How did you find out about this place?" he asks, opening up his menu.

"Oh, it's funny, actually—my sophomore year suitemate was a huge Harry Potter fan, and she'd been coming here for ages with her anglophile friends. We couldn't afford to come often, with our schedules and general lack of cash, but whenever her parents would visit she'd make them take us here."

"That sounds nice. And sorry, but, um—who's Harry Potter? Is he a singer or something?"

He cannot read the expression on Rachel's face beyond the fact that it's not good. "Steve, how much do you…? I mean. That is to say. When you came back—I know it's a lot, but did they even try to…" She frowns, tries again. "Do you even know what you've missed?"

"Sorry?"

"I've been thinking about it ever since we left the theater. Casablanca. You were gone for so long, and the world is such a different place than when you left it. How much did they fill you in about… everything?"

He stares at the menu for a long moment, because picking from among their dozens of varieties of tea is a much less daunting task than answering her. So much of his life is still classified information, despite his open identity, and even if he  _could_ tell her… "I was brought up to date on history. Political history, anyway. Berlin Wall went up and down; World Trade Center went up and down. Presidents, assassinations, major international events… wars. Apparently we won mine, so that was nice."

It wasn't nice. He hadn't known about the bomb, hadn't believed in an America that would use it. But they made him the man he is today; he should have known they were developing other weapons. Made to be unleashed, just like him. Bitterness dries his mouth; leaves him swallowing.

Earl Grey sounds good.

"But what about pop culture? What about—have you even heard of the Beatles?"

Despite the rotten feeling in the pit of his stomach, a smile tugs at his lips. "Yes, I've been introduced to the Beatles. Amazing stuff."

That had been a good day. It all started with one of Tony's early morning (for Tony, late night) tech tutorials—he'd patched some glitches in their communicators, and had had to show them all  _immediately,_ because that's how he works. Somewhere in the middle of his speech, however, he'd started talking about Led Zeppelin—a confusing enough tangent for the well-informed, but impossible for Steve, who was hung up on the idea of a lead balloon aircraft.

It must have showed on his face, because two hours later, Clint tracked him down in the gym.  _I saw the way you looked in there,_ Clint had said,  _and the idea of you having to ask somebody why they were talking about beetles was just…_ He'd trailed off, then dug a CD out of his cargo pocket.  _Listen to this; if you like it, come find me._

He'd loved it. The rest of the day was spent in Clint's quarters, sitting silently while the music played. He'd sketched little scenes that came into his head to go with the songs while Clint whittled; they'd made their way through the entire Beatles discography.

Steve cherishes days like those; half the time his teammates still feel like strangers, and every moment spent getting closer with them is etched indelibly into his memory.

"Steve?" Rachel asks softly, and he startles.

"Sorry. I was just… well. Thinking about the Beatles. To answer your question, though, I guess I'm still pretty behind. I keep telling myself that I'll take a few days and really dig into what I missed, but…" He trails off.

"Well, if you ever want a guide, I'd be more than happy to help or give suggestions. Actually, musical theater is a fantastic place to start; Broadway's always been a sort of cultural barometer."

"And Harry Potter?"

"Is a children's book series about a boy wizard."

Steve blinks. "Really?"

"Hey, don't knock it! They were massively important—got kids to start reading again. And they're wonderful. There are seven books in the series, released over a decade, so people in the right generation got to just… grow up with them. They're about the power of love over evil."

"I'll have to give them a look," he says, and he means it—he could do with that kind of a story.

Before they can talk any more, their waitress interrupts him. Along with his tea he orders mashed potatoes and a Cornish pasty, because even with his warped sense of time, it feels like much too long since he's had one.

* * *

"No, I'm serious, I must have seen it about thirty times. Worth every nickel."

Steve's not sure how they landed on the Wizard of Oz, of all things, but he's happy to have found a topic on which they're both equally knowledgeable.

"What was it like?" Rachel asks, leaning forward. "Seeing Oz burst into color for the first time?"

"It was… really something," Steve says, because it's pretty much the extent of his eloquence on the subject. He immediately feels bad that he can't give her more than that. "There isn't really a way to explain it. It surprised me every time, except… even the first time, you felt like you should have expected it. In hindsight it seemed so obvious."

"Fun fact—Wizard of Oz wasn't a very large financial success in its first release, and it didn't really get popular until they started broadcasting it on television in 1956. But at that time, only NBC was regularly broadcasting in color, and most people in the US didn't own color televisions until the mid-sixties. So there were ten whole years where an entire generation didn't know Oz was in color at all. The movie never changed, there was no switch. Which makes it a completely different film, don't you think?" She smiles apologetically, realizing she's been rambling. "Things you learn in a Classic Hollywood Cinema elective."

"That's… huh." He hates how inarticulate he's being, but he doesn't have words to describe how evocative he finds that factoid. People missing out on experience because of time. He decides to try a different tack: "You know, you'd make a great Dorothy."

She blushes and looks away. "You don't have to say things like that."

"I'm just being honest. You've got the look, and you've certainly got the voice…"

"Thank you," she says quietly. "You know, it's funny—I actually dreamed for years of playing Elphaba. Um, that's the Wicked Witch in—"

"I know. I saw Wicked a few weeks ago with the team. It's how I found you. Or—that is, it's what lead me back to Broadway, which is how I found Babes in Arms."

"What did you think of it?"

"It was… interesting. The music was beautiful, and it was very… thought provoking."

"You sound like you didn't like it that much," she points out, catching on to his reluctance.

"No, I did. It's just… maybe I'm just old fashioned, or maybe I'm too sentimental, I don't know. I had a hard time with it. I just think there's some merit in having a villain that you know is… truly a villain. Wicked took that certainty away."

"You're a man of your time," Rachel says casually, but something on her face makes him think that what he said really made that click for her.

"I guess so."

"But really, that just links back with what I was talking about earlier. How musical theater is a barometer for the social climate of an era. Part of why Wicked was so successful was because it spoke to the themes and concerns of the early Bush administration, when it first came out. It resonated with people."

Before he can ask her more about that, the waitress comes with their food.

"That's all you're getting?" he asks, when he compares Rachel's bowl of soup to his side of the table, laden with full plates.

She shrugs. "There isn't too much I can eat here; I'm vegan." At his questioning look, she asks, "You've heard of vegetarians?"

"Um. People who don't eat meat."

"Right. Well, vegan is like a more intense version of that—I don't eat or use any animal byproducts whatsoever. No milk, no cheese, no eggs, no leather clothing. Um, many vegans don't eat honey, either, but that's more of a personal choice. I still do because it's good for my voice, which is part of the reason I stopped eating dairy in the first place. Less, ah. Phlegm." She wrinkles her nose at the thought, then adds, "It's also one way to know I'm always kosher, which is nice."

Just about half of what she said went over his head—and boy can she  _talk_  when she wants to—but kosheris a word he grew up with. "I didn't realize you were Jewish."

"Is that… a problem?" she asks slowly, making a face he can't decipher.

He can't help but laugh. "Rachel, I'm from  _Brooklyn._ "

"I know, but—"

"I picked a heck of a side to fight on if I had a problem with people being Jewish, don't you think?"

She frowns. "I—you're right. I'm sorry."

"No, it was a fair question," he concedes. "Not all of the guys I knew were in it for the right reasons. A lot of 'em walked all over me, for a while. I, uh… did a lot of hard work in Basic to show that it didn't always make you look weak to defend the little guy."

"I can't imagine you in Basic," Rachel says, looking him up and down; her eyes focus on the way his hand dwarfs his teaspoon with amusement. "I mean, were you always… like this?"

"Like what?"

"All…" she waves her fork around, indicating his body, " _this_?"

"I can't talk about that," he says, tone apologetic but firm.

"What; you could tell me, but then you'd have to kill me?"

His eyes go wide. "What? I mean, yeah, it's classified, but I'd never—"

She's giggling. "Steve, it's okay. I was joking. It's a line, an old quotation… I don't even know what it's from originally. James Bond, maybe? I guess it must have been after your time." She smiles. "I know I'm safe with you."

Hearing her say that relieves him more than it should. "Good." As keeps happening with her, he finds himself mentally going back and replaying their conversation, trying to find the last branching off subject; she moves so quickly. "I'm sorry there's not much you can eat here; I hope you didn't put yourself out for my sake."

"I wouldn't have invited you here if I didn't love it," she insists, before sipping her tea.

"So… did you always want to be an actress?" he asks, finally taking a bite of his food. It's heavenly, and the taste of it snaps him back to a life long ago and far removed. He tries to focus hard on Rachel's words.

"I always wanted to be on Broadway, yes, but the singing was a far bigger draw for me than the acting was, as a child. I always resented things that didn't come easily to me. Singing is the most natural feeling in the world; acting took work. But I went to a performing arts school in the city for college, and it really changed my perspective on my dreams. In a good way, I think. Did you always want to be a soldier?"

"No, actually. I mean, once the war started, yes—I just couldn't stand the idea of not… I dunno. Doing my part. Didn't seem right to let other guys risk their necks and not stick out my own. But before that…"

"Yes?" she goads, when it looks like he won't finish on his own.

"You're going to laugh."

"No, I won't."

"I… wanted to be an artist. Sketch comic books."

She smiles. "You're talking to the little girl who swore she'd have an EGOT by the age of twenty-five; it would be extremely hypocritical of me to laugh."

"EGOT?"

"Emmy, Grammy, Oscar, Tony. It's sort of the holy grail of musical performers, to get each of those awards."

"What are they for?" he asks, feeling foolish. "Oscars are for films, right? They used to print the winners in the paper every year."

"Yes, Oscars are for films. Emmys are for television, Grammys are for music, and Tonys are for work on the Broadway stage. I never considered it before, but now that I'm thinking about it, yes, they all began after the second world war."

She's starting to get that melancholy look on her face, like she's beginning to realize how much he's missed, and he doesn't want to have that conversation right now. "How many have you got so far?" he asks, leaning in on his elbows with interest.

"None, unfortunately. I was nominated for a Tony when I played Eponine a few years ago, but I was beaten out by Patti LuPone. There are few people to whom I will lose graciously, but she's one of them."

He doesn't know who Eponine or Patti LuPone are, but he can look it up later. "What about Babes In Arms?"

"Portal Day made a mess out of everything; the whole season got thrown off. We missed our chance."

"That's a shame; it's an amazing show."

"Thank you," she murmurs, brushing her bangs from her eyes. Her lips twitch a little. "Do you still draw?"

"Sometimes," he says, tips of his ears going red. "Not as much as I used to."

Not since Dr. Berdino asked him to turn in his sketchbook a few months ago and found the lines of Bucky and Peggy's faces rendered over and over and over again, interrupted only by the doodles he'd drawn listening to the Beatles with Clint. She hadn't confiscated it or anything, but she  _had_  advised him to find a new muse; told him she suspected he was using his talent as a reason not to move forward.

Inspiration has been thin on the ground, of late.

"Can I see them sometime?"

"What, my drawings? I… they're nothing special."

"You're something special," she counters, and he doesn't really know what to do with that.

"Being strong doesn't make me any good at art," he finally mumbles.

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?" she asks gently.

"Maybe. I mean, I don't have my sketchbook on me, or anything, so…"

"I look forward to seeing whatever you want to show me, whenever you're ready. And why do you think your strength is the only thing that makes you special?"

His brow wrinkles. "I figured that was kind of obvious."

"Your physical abilities are extraordinary, no one's denying that. But you were an artist long before you were a soldier. So why should your rank define you?"

"It's—" He frowns, unsure of how to argue with her, but feeling like she's giving him too much credit. He changes tactics. "I dunno if I'd say _artist._ I like to draw, that's all. Doesn't make me any good."

"Talent has nothing to do with it. It's about how you see yourself, and what you want. My parents had to soundproof my room when I was thirteen because the neighbors complained that I sang too loud. I wasn't going to stop singing, so we found a way around it."

He can just imagine her. His lips tug upwards at the thought, and suddenly nostalgia's pulling him back, making comparisons. All the stubby broken pencils he hoarded in the orphanage; the loose paper he hid under his mattress so it wouldn't get crumpled. "I get that. I once got the tar beaten out of me for drawing on a bridge."

"Really?"

Every detail is crystal clear to him. How the water staining and mineral deposits on the old concrete had created a vivid picture only he could see, and how desperate he'd been to bring it out. He thought he'd get in trouble for stealing the chalk from the Catholic school, because even though the sisters had a soft spot for him, they sure wouldn't anymore if he got caught. As it turned out, nuns were the least of his problems. The bridge was gang territory.

He and Bucky'd been outnumbered about two dozen to two—he couldn't open his right eye for about a week afterwards.

"Steve?"

It feels personal, but… try as he might, he can't think of a single reason not to tell Rachel this story.

So he does.

* * *

The meal is wonderful, and Steve completely loses track of how much time they spend just eating and talking. When the check finally arrives, he snatches it up before she gets a chance to even glance at it. She gives him a look, but… even if it weren't a gentleman's duty, it would be ridiculous for him to do anything less considering the amount of money SHIELD pays him.

"Next time we do this, we're going somewhere where you have more options, okay?" he says as he tucks a handful of bills into the checkbook. "You can teach me all about vegan food."

"Next time?"

He looks up. "Next dark day, I mean. If you want to."

"You know… the theater doesn't have to be dark for us to hang out," Rachel points out, a slow smile making her features glow.

He swallows. "It, uh, it doesn't?"

She reaches across the table to touch his hand. "Steve, in case it's escaped your notice: I  _like_  spending time with you."

"Good," he says, because it's the first thing that comes to mind. "I mean. I like spending time with you, too."

"Well that settles it," she says, standing up and reaching for her coat. "It's a date. Hypothetically."

"I can't wait," he says honestly, standing as well. "Um. Can I walk you home?"

She tucks her hair behind her ear. "I'd like that."

He doesn't stop smiling for fifteen blocks.

* * *

Later that night, his phone lights up. He doesn't recognize the number, but when he fishes through his pockets to find the napkin Rachel gave him, it matches what she wrote down. The text only says two words:  **Top Gun.**

He doesn't know what that means, but then, he's not really sure how to respond, either. It occurs to him that there's probably a way to save her number so that he doesn't have to check back with the napkin every time he wants to talk to her. He's got other numbers programmed in, after all, and just because the ones he has so far are work-related doesn't mean they  _all_  have to be.

"Jarvis?" he asks aloud, not wanting to break anything. "Can you save a number to my phone?"

" _Apologies, Captain, but I cannot._ "

He frowns. He could have sworn… "Phones don't save numbers?" he ventures meekly.

(He hates this. He has no problem with the tech they use at SHIELD; it's all hands-on and intuitive. But these little domestic things—cell phones and DVRs—he just can't wrap his mind around them. It's infuriating.)

" _Of course they do,"_ Jarvis says, and Steve has no idea how Tony figured out how to code the sound and inflection of a robot rolling its non-existent eyes, but he clearly managed it. _"But one of Mr. Stark's stipulations in installing me here was that a protocol be put in place to stop me from doing anything he deemed you should be able to do for yourself. I believe he referred to you as a 'grown ass man.'_ "

Steve sighs. "Is there a protocol override?"

" _I'm afraid not, sir. I can advise you to start by clicking the phone icon at the bottom of your screen._ "

"Some help you are," Steve mutters, but obediently swipes his thumb over the appropriate place.

It's a struggle, but he manages to save her to his Contacts under her name, and text back a question mark. (He'd tried to ask "What?" but it kept coming out WJAT, and eventually he'd given up. He got the distinct impression that JARVIS was laughing at him, despite the conspicuous silence from the walls.)

After an embarrassingly short few seconds, considering how long it took him to reply, her response comes through:  **You know, "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you." It's from the movie Top Gun, originally. 1986. We should watch it sometime. It's about the air force or something. You'd like it.**

He wants to say:  _Sure, we'll make it a double feature with Casablanca._

He manages to say:  **OK**.

And maybe it's dumb, but… he's kind of proud of himself, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to thank you all again for reading, and for being so enthusiastic and accepting of this story. I can't promise when the next chapter will be up, though, because a) I still have no internet at home from the hurricane, I'm posting this at my grandmother's house, and b) because from here on out the story gets... much more vague.
> 
> The bright side is that that's where you can come in! I absolutely have an arc planned for these two, but their relationship becomes much more open-ended at this point; I don't have a lot written. So if you have any suggestions or requests, now is absolutely the time.


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